A Time to Break Down
by George P
Summary: What if the otherwise surreal comic events of "FLCL" became hidden trauma that haunts one of the characters later?


A Time to Break Down

by

George Pollock, Jr.

"She's in here," the woman said and handed him the clipboard.

They stood in a very long, very bright military hospital hallway with colored lines on the floor. The lines lead to various departments: surgery, radiology, rehabilitation, pharmacy. And psychiatry, where they stood next to a nondescript door to a patient's room.

The man reviewed the top document on the board. He and the woman wore medium-blue military uniforms, but their white lab coats gave them the aura of the doctors they were. "So she's been here since yesterday?" he asked.

The woman sighed. "Since late afternoon. Straight from the city jail. Never seen a transfer from civilian authorities so fast. Usually takes a couple of hours, at least. But from the time the cops notified the post, she was coming through the doors with the MPs about 50 minutes later."

"That _is_ fast," he agreed.

"Started off regularly enough. Sent her name into command. Usually takes time to get SOP moving. But with her, Medical Command came back almost immediately and told us to get her here ASAP." She put her hands in her coat's pockets. "She somebody important?"

He flipped the top page and scanned the sheet beneath. "She's a Mabase survivor," he replied, not looking up. "That's important enough."

"That came up on her record. Might explain why Medcom sent a colonel out here." Her tone became slightly defensive. "I reviewed the Mabase incident last night and the civilian case histories. With all due respect, sir, I didn't see anything in the medical record — physical or mental — that we couldn't handle here."

He looked up. "She's a special case, Doctor." He said it as if it were the end of the discussion.

It wasn't. "Even for Mabase?"

"Yes. I'm sorry, Doctor, but her case is need-to-know only." He made it sound as if it was really the end of that discussion. Which it was. "How has she behaved since coming here?"

"Just sits in bed or a chair, looking out the window or watching TV. She'll interact with people, though. Very cooperative but minimal engagement. Like she doesn't want to make trouble."

"Sounds like she's withdrawing. PTSD, you think?"

"Post-traumatic stress disorder? Possibly. Hell, probably. If she was in Mabase, there'd have been enough trauma."

There'd been a lot of PTSD after Mabase, he knew. A lot of civilians, certainly. They had been treated under intense scrutiny and security. And for more than patient confidentiality, their records had been sealed, and they were put under strict gag orders. At government request. At government penalty.

But the woman in the room beyond was the first military case, and so he had a job here. "She's in intelligence," he said, checking the clipboard again. "She was usually in the Mabase command center underground, but she was on the ground several times during the incident. Mostly in the middle of it when things blew up."

" Bad place to be," the other doctor said, "from what I've heard."

"She survived two near-hits on her car over a few days. One was when a sniper round she fired came back on her." He paused. "She's in special ops, too, by the way."

"How did the round come back on her …?"

He shrugged. "Nobody knows. In any event, in a third encounter, her car was destroyed. Practically with her in it."

"She's lucky to be alive."

He uncurled the papers flat on the clipboard. "Wonder whether she thinks so now. Let's find out."

The woman nodded and knocked on the door.

"Come in." A woman's voice. Small and simple. But not particularly weak, the man noted.

The door opened onto a cream-colored room practically bursting with sunlight through a window with opened white curtains. Good therapy, the man knew: Keep patients in natural light. Keep them in a positive light, literally. There was usually enough darkness in them already. So keep them in light. Bright, natural, fulfilling light.

A young blond woman in a white hospital gown sat up in the bed, two pillows stacked behind her back and the sheet and light-off-yellow cover over her legs. Her hands lay clasped on her lap. She seemed to be in her late 20s and was actually rather fetching, he thought: Dark-amber eyes. Natural medium-tan skin that didn't look like cured by the sun or forced by a lamp. Small freckles on both cheeks. He wondered what her ancestry was.

Her light-yellow hair parted high on her forehead and was kind of a mop, but not unkempt. Longish bangs framed her face. Her strands contoured backward until they ended near the top of the back of her neck. The light through the window illuminated her light hair like a halo. He dismissed that immediately as romanticizing, which was distracting.

"Hello, Kit," the female doctor said pleasantly. "How are you today?"

"I'm fine," the younger woman said. The man thought that the answer was straightforward, nothing else. A statement of fact. Not false cheeriness or subdued confrontation or resigned indignation. He sensed that. She was just saying how she felt. Nothing more.

"Well, that's good." The older woman indicated the man. "Kit, this is Doctor Freedman. He's a psychiatrist. He's going to talk to you for a while."

He expected a reaction. There usually was one. Sometimes it was an expression — a face of fear on people who thought that talking to a shrink was a death sentence of sorts. That their sanity had gone forever. That others' perceptions of them would be shattered forever. That face was one of the more painful aspects of his profession.

But that face wasn't hers. She gave him a slight, polite nod. "Hello, Doctor."

"Hello … Kit …" Her simplicity threw him, and his short reply was all he could think of.

"I'll leave you two alone now," the female doctor said. "And I'll see you later, Kit. Like I told you before, if you need anything, use the call button, and a nurse will be here as soon as possible."

Another slight blond nod. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you."

The man wondered whether Kit could say more than two words at a time. The other doctor turned to him; shot a glance that clearly said, "Good luck"; and left, closing the door behind her.

On the back of the door, a woman's medium-blue military uniform rested neatly on a hanger on a hook. The uniform was a dress-length tunic with light-blue trim and brass badges. The garment was sharply pressed. He assumed that it was Kit's.

Nearby, on a small white dresser, was the rest of a woman's dress uniform: A low-slung medium-blue hat with the light-blue trim and a brass badge. A properly folded pair of standard-issue white full-length hose and a short white duty tie. On the floor, next to the dresser, a pair of medium-blue ankle boots — again with the light-blue trim — sat with military properness.

A white bra was gently folded on the dresser. He glanced over to her: It was apparent, even with the hospital gown, that she wasn't wearing _any_ bra. He took in her fullness appreciatively. But for only a moment. He was human, true, and a man. But he had a job here.

He walked over to the bed. There was a plain wooden padded chair next to a white nightstand, on which sat a clear plastic pitcher of water on a gray plastic tray. A clear plastic cup, half-filled with water, was within short reach of the woman. Also, a white box of tissues. Resting by it was the remote control for the TV that sat on a black bracket on the wall opposite the bed. The TV was off.

The doctor pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat down. Quickly and mostly quietly, he flipped the pages on the clipboard. "Well," he started, "Lieutenant … Kit … su … ru … ba … mi …" He looked up. "Is that correct?"

A nod. "Yes, sir."

Just two words — again, he observed. He squinted back at the top document. "Well … I … don't think I'll even _try_ your first name. How about you tell me?" He looked up kindly and smiled.

She didn't smile back, merely glanced at his rank insignia on his nametag. "If it's all right … Colonel," she said, "please call me 'Kit.' That's what people call me when I'm off duty. Is this considered off duty, sir?"

He marveled that she had used extended sentences. "Yes, this is considered off duty. All right … Kit. Call me 'Doctor Freedman.' Or just 'Doctor.' You don't need military formality when we're talking like this." His focus intensified. "But _only_ when we're talking like this. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," she replied respectfully. In two words.

Well … we'll work on that, he thought. "Why don't you tell me what happened yesterday."

Kit pointed at the clipboard. "It should be in there. I was told the city police forwarded their report to the investigative service."

"They did. But I want to hear it from you."

She sighed, as if resigned to tell a tale again that she didn't want to repeat. "I had just gotten off duty and was downtown to do some shopping. I was also going to pick up my cleaning. I was standing on a corner, waiting for the light to change, when I heard what sounded like a gunshot nearby. My training kicked in, and I drew my sidearm."

Despite his own suggestion, his superior-officer instincts kicked in. "Against regs to armed off duty, Lieutenant. Especially in a civilian area."

"Yes, sir, but I have the intelligence/special ops exemption."

He checked the board. She did. "I see. I hear they put you through the wringer to get it."

Her expression didn't change. "You have no idea."

"Primarily so you don't snap and start shooting at people."

She said nothing, just slowly looked down into her lap. "I didn't shoot at _anyone_," she whispered to it. "I didn't shoot _at all_ …"

"I know, Kit. I read that in the report. No one's saying you were firing," the man said.

"I'll probably lose the exemption," she told her lap.

"Probably. Is the exemption important to you?"

She shrugged. "No. Not really."

"Then let's talk about something that is."

She lifted her head, faced the man and answered with a small nod.

"OK." Another glance at the clipboard. "You didn't just draw your sidearm, did you?"

"No."

"What else?"

"I scanned the area quickly with my weapon, looking for the shooter. Then …" She sighed.

"What?"

She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. Her chin rested on her knees. "I don't know …," she said distantly. "Something hit me. It was … cold. A feeling. A sharp, tingling fear."

"About what?"

"I don't know. When I scanned around the street, down the line of cars, I felt as if … something horrible was going to happen."

"So," he said, "you yelled at people to get down and take cover. That's what the police said in their report. Is that right?"

"Yeah."

"By the way, it was smart of you to withdraw from the crowd immediately."

"I knew … something was wrong. I went to my car and just stood by it. I had just parked it." She spoke quietly. "I was surprised at how fast the cops got there. I guess someone called them."

"The miracle of 9-1-1 and cell phones."

"Yeah ..."

"And it was _very_ smart of you not to resist when they told you to surrender your weapon. That could have ended badly if you hadn't, Kit." He focused on her intently. "_Very_ badly."

"I know … About possible gunfire – I didn't want civilian casualties. And I wanted a clean shot, if I needed it."

"Very thorough, proper procedure, Kit. I'm impressed."

She rested her left cheek on her knees, so she faced him. "I've been a sniper, you know?" It seemed more than a question; it was like a request for understanding.

"I read that. You had a sniping mission once in Mabase, right?"

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, as if to say, "You _had_ to mention Mabase, _didn't_ you …?" After a pause, she said, "Yeah …"

He studied her: She was clearly in something like the fetal position. Not one of whimpering vulnerability — one of resigned acceptance, as if she knew at long last, the name of Mabase hanging over her was finally going to crash down and crush her. And that there was nothing now that she could do to stop it.

"That was when your last shot came back on you, right?"

Her dark-amber eyes reappeared. "Uh-huh."

Another review of the papers. "Kit … what was the sound you heard downtown?"

A deep sigh. "A car backfired at the light. A Mini Cooper. Tiny thing."

"What color was it?"

She lifted her head and rested her chin on her knees again. "Blue. It was blue."

"Didn't you have a blue car in Mabase?"

A nod. "A Fiat," she answered distractedly. "Had a sunroof. Sweet little ride."

"What happened to it?" He already knew.

Her head bowed more deeply than before, until her forehead touched her knees. Her voice was slightly muffled. "It was destroyed during the end of the incident. But … it got hit by one of my rounds on the sniping mission before that. The shot came back around. I don't know how. … I was shooting by a river. It was a really nice day — but the glare off the water made targeting a bitch. Took forever to get a clean shot."

She faced him quickly. "Sorry. I was being technical. I guess that's not why you're here."

He shrugged. "I'm listening, Kit. _That's_ why I'm here. What was your target?"

"A rogue robot, if you can believe that."

"Apparently, there was a _lot _in Mabase that was hard to believe."

"You have no idea."

"Did you at least get the robot?"

"No … I was hit before I could get him."

"What happened when you were hit?"

She straightened again, crossed her arms, rested them on her knees, then rested her chin on her arms. Her expression turned far away. He figured that she was going back to Mabase in her mind. It seemed to take a long time to get there.

"I was flying," she said.

"Flying?"

"From the blast. Blew off the hat and coat I was wearing. Tore up my uniform, too." Her right hand circled above her left breast absent-mindedly. "You could even see the bottom of my left tit – I mean … breast … sir …"

"I'm a doctor, Kit," he noted reassuringly. "I've heard them called a lot of things."

"Yeah … Anyway, I didn't even notice my uniform was torn until I hit the river. But when that cold water hit my … well, you know …" She shivered. "_Damn_ …"

"You were thrown all the way to the river?"

"I have this impression that I hit someone who was in the river already. I'm not sure. Seemed like it. I don't know. Doesn't seem possible. … I remember settling face-down, though."

He squinted. "Face-down?"

She faced him again. "Yeah. I don't know long I was like that. I just remember I couldn't see anything for a while. It was dark. And cold. And I couldn't move. Maybe it was shock from the blast. Maybe I was knocked out from hitting the person in the river … if he was real. … I dunno …"

"How deep was the river there?"

A shrug. "Not really deep. More like a broad stream. Twenty-five, maybe 30, centimeters."

He proceeded delicately. "Kit … did you know … that if you can't get up — and you're face-down — you can _drown_ in only 30 centimeters of water?"

She glanced away. "It was really dark," she whispered. "Not just dark. There was … nothing. I didn't register anything. I just stopped … _being_ …

"My nose woke me," she concluded.

"Your nose?"

"It was cold. It stopped working."

"You've lost me."

"I think … my nose filled with water. I couldn't breathe. That's when I started … _feeling_ … again. It was unreal: One instant, I was … nowhere. I didn't exist. The next instant, there's this _HUGE_ jolt. I don't know: From being _nothing,_ I'm soaking and freezing and pushing myself out of the water like a crazy woman." She paused. "And I never … _ever _… felt … my _life _… so … _much_ …"

"That's understandable." He leaned forward. "Kit, from what you've just told me, I think you started to _drown_."

Her forehead returned to her knees, and she closed her eyes.

"Did that occur to you then?"

She shook her head. "Know what I thought next?" Her voice was muffled again.

"What?"

"I was still holding the anti-tank gun I had been firing and a walkie-talkie — all the way from the car. … And so I'm lying in a river, cold and wet after getting my ass blown out of my car … and all I can think of is: 'What the _HELL_ am I still holding _THESE_  
for …?' "

He chuckled. He couldn't help it but recovered. "What then?"

She lifted her head and looked straight ahead. "I called in to my superior. I don't know why. Training, I guess." She blinked. "I'm blown into a river, and I still report in. Can you believe that?"

"You're a professional, Kit. Apparently, no matter what."

Another shake of the head. "Seems so stupid now …"

"Actually, feelings like that are normal after something like what you went through. It's like you're on autopilot when it happens."

"Really?"

"Uh-huh." He leaned back in the chair. "So what happened next?"

She started rubbing her temples. "Well … while I was calling in, the robot landed near me. Oh — it could fly."

He grinned. "Remember what I said about Mabase."

"Anyway … I didn't see it land near me. I was focused on the call."

"What did it do?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

He shifted in the chair. "OK … then what did _you_ do, Kit?"

"I … freaked out."

"How?"

She lowered her hands. "I had two sidearms on me. I pulled them out and emptied the clips at him. And I screamed … _God,_ I screamed …"

"Were you afraid?"

"Not at first."

"What, then?"

"I was angry." She turned toward him. "My mission had failed, I was pissed about that — and the damned robot wouldn't go down." Her voice turned quieter. "Then the clips ran out …"

"Did you have any other weapons? What about the anti-tank gun?"

"It was out of ammo."

"A knife?"

"Against a robot?"

"Should always have a knife going into a mission like that, Lieutenant. Regardless. What about hand-to-hand?"

Her eyes narrowed coolly. "Against a _robot_ …?"

He nodded. "Good point."

"Anyway … I was too drained from the blast and … after starting to drown, I guess. So when the clips gave out, I …" She closed her eyes and shook her head sharply, as if she were trying to wag off a feeling she didn't want to welcome.

"Take your time."

"When the clips gave out … I was afraid …"

"Of what?"

"That … he was going to kill me. I thought … 'I'm sitting in a freezing river, I'm naked …' OK, I wasn't _naked_," she conceded, "but it _felt_ like it." Her right hand circled her left breast again.

"Gotcha," he acknowledged.

"So … I thought, 'I'm cold, I'm wet, I'm naked, I'm out of ammo, a rogue robot is standing next to me … and … I can't do … a damned thing … about it … Not one … damned … thing …' "

A pause became a whisper. "… And I thought, '_Nothing_ … is going to stop my death now ... _nothing_ …' "

"You thought you were going to die?"

"Yeah … _And I … couldn't … stop … it_ …" She glanced down slowly.

He thought. "Kit … how much time passed between being blown out of your car and running out of bullets?"

She turned away. "Dunno …," she mumbled.

"Try."

"… Three minutes ... maybe not even that."

"So … in the space of maybe three minutes, you faced the possibility of death three times."

"Three …?"

"The explosion at the car, starting to drown and the fear that the robot would kill you."

She closed her eyes. "I guess …"

"All that in three minutes. That's _scary,_ Kit. Even for a professional soldier like you."

Slowly, her forehead rested on her crossed arms again.

"Have you ever thought of that moment like _that_ before?"

A shake of her head. Vaguely, a sniffle. And a soft whimper that didn't want to sound like a whimper. "I didn't want … to die …"

He strove for evenness. "None of us does, Kit."

A low mantra rose from her: "I didn't want to die … I _don't_ want to die … I don't want to _die_ … I don't want to _die_ … _Oh … sweet … God … I don't … want … to … die …_"

He crossed his arms. "We all die someday, Kit. No one can avoid it." He wasn't unkind.

"_NO!!"_ The explosion went down into her lap. _"NO!! NO!! NO!!_ I DIDN'T WANT TO DIE IN A RIVER!! I DON'T WANT TO _DIE!! _I DON'T WANT TO _DIE!! _NOT NOW!! _I DON'T WANT TO DIE!!"_

A loud sniffle erupted, and she turned away from him. As he listened, slow muffled sobs started from the far side of her. So he waited. We finally got to Mabase, he thought. _Her_ Mabase.

"You _didn't_ die that day, Kit. Obviously," he said calmly. The back of her head didn't reply. "What happened … after you finished shooting at the robot? What did he do?"

After a moment, she wiped her eyes and nose with her right hand. "He helped me up …" It was meek, weakened directness.

"Helped you up?"

Another quick wipe. "He held out his hand … and helped me up …"

"You accepted his help?"

"Yes …"

"Pretty strange behavior for a rogue robot."

A sniffle, and she returned to him. Her eyes were red and swollen. "He, um … had some sort of … AI … I don't know …"

"It sounds very _nice_ of him, Kit."

"He was …" She sounded removed from the moment. She brushed her hair from her face, but after putting her hands down, they shook nervously. "Um … um … Doctor … I … um … need to tell you … about something … now …"

Straightening up again, she took some tissues from the box and wiped her eyes, nose and hands. She saw her shaking hands and clasped them until her knuckles turned white. "OK … um … when he … um … when he helped me up … I don't know … maybe it was relief … because he wasn't going to … kill me …" She quickly put her right hand over her face and shook her head. "Oh, _God,_ you're going to think I'm a _pervert_ …"

"Just say what you want to say, Kit," he said. "Forget about me."

She lowered her hand but then started to rock both hands palm-down with the pace of her words. "OK … when I realized … he wasn't going to … kill me … I thought … he was the greatest person … I'd ever met …"

"Why?"

Her hands rested on the cover. "Because … he spared my life … I wouldn't die. And so … right then … I … _loved_ him …"

"_Loved _him?"

"Yeah ..."

"A robot?"

"Told you it was going to sound perverted ..."

He huffed, trying to clear his thoughts. "Well … what did you do?"

"I … stared at him puppy-eyed and couldn't … stop. I … wanted to hug him and hold onto him and keep him forever … God, I can't tell you how _strong_ that feeling was at that moment …"

"So … he became something … reassuring … to you then? Because he helped you live?"

"I guess …"

"What do you think about all this _now_, Kit?"

"… I … miss him," she said softly. "He … transmuted into something else later, during the incident."

He uncrossed his arms and laid them in his lap. "Just out of curiosity … are you _attracted_ to robots now … or machines, in general?"

"Not … really. But I still miss _him._ I felt something … special ... with him … before he changed. Something close. But only with him. Nothing since."

"So you don't think you're a techno-fetishist now?"

"What's that?"

"Someone who likes machines and technology to a point where being around them — and being in contact with them — gives the person an almost …" He proceeded delicately. "… _sexual_ … pleasure ..."

She thought. "Do … vibrators count …?"

"No."

"Then I'm not one of those."

"Well, then." And he checked the clipboard again. "Kit, there are two more Mabase incidents I'd like to discuss. I think they're relevant to what happened in town yesterday. Is that all right?"

She shrugged. "OK ..."

"Later during the incident, the Entity rose above Mabase and started firing at an airborne target. Do you remember that?"

"I was there," she noted.

"So you remember when an empty munition shell casing fell near your position?"

"I've tried to forget."

"Where were you then?"

"In my car. It, um, still ran after the sniper shot hit it. Not very well, though. My superior and I were heading toward the Entity when the casing landed near us."

"In the same blue Fiat?"

"Yeah," she said.

"What happened when the casing hit?"

"Well, the damned thing was as big as a dump truck. It buckled the street right in front of us, and the shock wave flipped the car."

"So it didn't hit the car?"

"No. It fell in another direction after it hit. Thank God …"

"Were you trapped in the car?"

"No. I was thrown clear. So was my superior."

"Did he survive?"

"Yeah. That time, at least. I _know_ he was involved in the final confrontation of the incident later."

"Kit," he said, leaning forward again, "you were lucky again."

She frowned. "How?"

"If the casing had hit your car directly with you in it — or fell in another direction and hit the car with you in it — you'd have been crushed." He focused intently. "You'd have died instantly."

Her eyes darted in thought.

"So on the same day as the sniping mission, you later faced the possibility of death again — twice — and your car was there. Again." He paused. "Do you … see that, Kit …?"

Her eyes stopped.

Once more, the board was consulted. "And in the final confrontation of the incident later, the Entity's central processor …"

"The Terminal Core …" she said, as if still distracted.

A glance down. "Yes. That's right," he said. "The Terminal Core crashed near your car and crushed it during a stampede down a street."

"It filled the street … the whole damned street …"

"Where were you during this?"

"Right in front of it. I'd been thrown clear of the car — _AGAIN _— when the core crashed."

"What did you do then?"

"Acted stupid," she explained.

"How?"

"I pulled out my sidearm and started firing at the core. The thing was as big as a department store – it's barreling down a street right at me — and I'm firing at it with a nine-millimeter." She shook her head. "I must have a death wish …"

"I don't think so, Kit," he said. "You didn't _invite_ anything that happened to you. So how'd you get out of the core's way?"

"My superior ran into the street. He was thrown clear of the car that time, too." She paused. "I was beginning to think he was a jinx for me."

"Or you for him, Kit. Think about it."

"Never saw it that way …"

"So he ran into the street _and_ …?"

"Grabbed me around the waist and threw me out of the way. In one throw. Still can't believe it. Seemed like three meters. Swear."

"The adrenaline rush during a crisis or panic is incredibly strong, Kit. Trust me on that."

"Huh ..."

"What happened to him?"

She sighed. "He started shooting at it. And I _know_ he got into the final confrontation of the incident. I tried getting him on a walkie-talkie, but … I couldn't …" Her eyes cast down. "I never saw him again …"

"Do you think he died?"

"I … don't know …"

"Did you … _like_ your superior, Kit?"

"… Yeah. In … a professional way …"

"What about personally?"

She faced him again. "Well … we … were sitting in my car once, and … um … he said we needed to work together … _closely_ … on the incident. Said it like he was making a … well … a _pass_ … at me_._" She cleared her throat softly. "Then … he, um, copped a feel of … one of my … uh …"

Her right hand started circling in the air again.

"… knees," she concluded.

Not exactly what he expected, but he pressed on. "How did you react?"

"I didn't like it. Told him that his acting like that was going to be a problem for me."

"Did he accept that?"

"Yeah, I'd say he did."

"No more incidents like that?"

"No," she said.

"Did you ever file an official complaint?"

"No," she repeated. "Like I said, he never did anything else."

"OK, then … so other than _that_ … did you like him as a _person_?"

"I guess … I did." She thought. "But … he wasn't around much longer after that ..."

"Because of the final encounter."

Her pause grew painfully long. "… Don't … make me think about that ... please …"

He waited a respectful moment. "All right," he answered gently. "Then let's think about _you,_ Kit. In this situation, you also faced death – and, again, twice: when the Terminal Core crushed your car and when you were shooting at it. Now, Kit, I want you to think about this. Think about it carefully: Over those few days in Mabase, you could have been killed – or thought you could have died …"

Now he thought. "… seven times. By my count. And there's only one constant, Kit. Only one."

She waited.

"Your little blue car."

He could see through her eyes that she was envisioning. "It's connected with all the times you felt the fear of death in Mabase, Kit. All of them."

Her eyes flared.

"And yesterday …," he ventured cautiously, "you heard what sounded like a gunshot. Then you saw a little blue car …

"I see a pattern, Kit. Do you?"

Her eyes slowly narrowed with deep skepticism. "That's _crazy_ …," she told the psychiatrist.

"Why?"

"Because I've been around a lot of small blue cars since I left Mabase," she explained. "I never freaked out around _them_. Why now?"

"Kit, did you ever hear what sounded like a gunshot around any of them? Like a backfire?"

Her memory worked and came up empty. "No …"

"But you did yesterday, right?"

"_Yes!!_" she exploded, exasperated. "I've told everyone that a million times! The damned car backfired! What _about _it?!"

He was silent as her flustered breathing settled. "Sometimes …," he finally said, "bad memories – and deep emotions – can be brought up by one thing. We call it a 'stimulus.' But sometimes, Kit, it can be a _combination_ of things. Like a gunshot _and_ a little blue car. The shot might not do anything. The car might not. But a shot _and_ a car _will._"

She didn't move, didn't speak for a few moments. Then, slowly, her legs straightened out on the bed. Out of the fetal position, the man noted.

"But, _Doctor_ …" She sounded a little pleading. "As far as I know … I remember _everything _about Mabase. Everything. I _know _I do. I haven't cowered over nightmares."

"Actually, I believe you. What you've told me matches the official record. And even something in the unofficial record."

"What's that?"

"There _was _someone in the river, Kit. The father of the family being watched in connection with the robot. I don't know why he was in the river, but you hit him when you landed. That's possibly what stunned you. So I believe that you haven't repressed any memories from Mabase."

She slowly turned toward the window and faced the panes. "Then … _why_ … did … I … _freak … out_ …?"

"I think," he said, "that what you repressed were your _feelings_ about those memories. Memories come with feelings, Kit. You can look memories in the eye and say you can handle them. But they're part of you, so the feelings inside them are, too. Always, Kit.

"I suspect … you never confronted your _feelings _about Mabase until yesterday. And it took a little blue car that backfired to bring them to the surface. The backfire became your last sniper shot. The blue Mini Cooper became your Fiat. The sniper shot and the Fiat were where everything started for your deepest feelings about Mabase."

She faced him again. "And my way of dealing with it … was to flash my gun …" Her eyes fell, and she shook her head sadly. "God … that's _pathetic_ …"

"Well, the floodgates opened, and all your suppressed feelings about Mabase poured out. So your basic human survival instinct took over. And your training as a soldier: The best defense is a strong offense."

"You make it sound like a _good_ thing," she mumbled, glancing up at him.

"I'm just explaining it. Unfortunately … you did it in the wrong way in the wrong place at the wrong time. I'm sorry, Kit, but that's the reality here. I have to report it that way, and you have to accept it."

"But … how often am I going to run into something _like_ a gunshot near a little blue car from now on?" She was defensive. "It was just a _coincidence_."

"Yes, it was. But your _response_ to it might stay in you forever, Kit. We have to deal with _that_ now."

Her eyes dropped again. There was a long silence. "Doctor …," she finally asked, "will this happen again?"

"Will it _never _bother you again?" he asked kindly. "Kit, I don't know. No one can guarantee that. Your life _can _get back to 'normal' again. But I don't think things can ever be the _same _again,now that we know this response is in you."

"What's going to be so 'normal' about it now?"

"It's going to be learning to live with it. Learning to not let the response control you. That's what you're going to have to do now, Kit. We can help direct you. But only you can decide how far you want to go."

"May I ask," she said quietly, "how you'll describe me — my … mental state …?"

"Post-traumatic stress disorder. Between your case history and talking to you, it's think it's clear."

She sighed. "So I guess my career is over."

"You'll probably lose that firearm exemption. There's probably no way around that. I'm sorry."

"Won't matter after I'm booted out …"

"Well …," he replied tentatively, "I'm not so sure you're out _yet,_ Kit."

She looked up fully. "Why?"

"Haven't you wondered why you're _here_ and not in the city jail or ours?"

A shrug. "I … assumed … a crazy like me would end up in a rubber room."

"Well, two things: First of all, you're _not_ crazy. Stop that right now. Second: This isn't a 'rubber room.' If we thought you were a danger to yourself or others, you wouldn't be anywhere nearly this nice."

She surveyed the plain – even dull – room. "_This_ is nice?"

"Want to see the confinement ward?"

She imagined. "… No …"

"Another thing," he said. "You know you could have faced some serious civilian charges, don't you?"

"I can see that."

"Brandishing a weapon in public. Terroristic threat. Really bad stuff, Kit."

"Terroristic threat?"

"When you shouted at people to get on the ground and take cover."

"Wait – I might have been out of it, but I did that to _protect_ them."

"Kit, if someone flashed a gun at you on a street corner and yelled at you to get down and take cover, would _you _feel 'protected'?"

She said nothing. His argument had already won. Then a thought: "Am I going to be charged?"

"No."

"How's _that_ gonna happen?"

He drew a deep breath. "Well … the military convinced the police and D.A.'s office _strongly_ that you'd be dealt with appropriately and wouldn't present a future danger to the community. Not exactly SOP, but the deal was accepted. You should be grateful, Kit."

"How am I going to be … 'dealt with'?" Her eyes fixed on his intently. "… Am I going to be committed?"

"No, you're not."

"You know …," she said, "even _I'd_ say that for someone who caused so much commotion, I'm getting off easy."

He glared but spoke professionally. "You're _not_ 'getting off easy,' Lieutenant." She straightened up in the bed at the mention of her rank. "You're going to get a lot of therapy. A _LOT_ of therapy. It'll be anything _but_ easy. PTSD isn't a joke. Is that _understood_?"

"_Yes,_ sir," she said firmly.

"Good. Lieutenant, I'm now addressing you as a superior officer. I have pertinent information for you. Consider it orders."

"Yes, sir," she repeated.

"After your therapy here, you'll be transferred to another post. It's probably no longer advisable for you to be seen around town here. You'll be confined to post until your transfer. It's been determined to be in your best interest."

She shook her head. "Begging the colonel's pardon, sir, but I have an apartment off post. What'll happen to that? And my car is still parked downtown."

"It's been addressed. You're off duty for the next three days, Lieutenant. You'll be released tomorrow, and new quarters have been set up for you on post. You'll get a special pass for the two days after that to move your effects to those quarters and offsite storage, which has been arranged."

"Are two days going to be _enough,_ sir?"

"You'll get a lot of help. A logistics squad and a transportation squad will assist you. They've been instructed to consider it a transfer-efficiency exercise. You'll awake at 0700 hours both days of the move. I'd get some coffee early."

"And my car, sir?"

"After finishing breakfast by 0830 the first day, you'll be driven to your vehicle, and then you'll drive to your apartment under escort. You'll help pack and load and be escorted to oversee storage of any effects. Then you'll drive under escort back to post to supervise unloading. You'll do the same the next day, but you'll be transported by personnel then. Your car will be stored in the motor pool, where it'll be maintained. Before you leave for your new posting, it'll be inspected and tuned up. And the moving of your effects for the transfer will be arranged. You'll be apprised of its scheduled arrival at your new posting."

She took it all in. "Sir, I'm not likely to _flee _because of this. Is the escort really necessary?"

"SOP, Lieutenant."

"I see." Her eyes darted again in thought. "Request permission to speak freely, sir."

He nodded. "Granted."

"All this seems to be a _lot_ to arrange in such a _short_ time."

"The military is good at what it does. Despite impressions to the contrary."

"And this seems to be … a _lot_ … to do for _one_ lieutenant … sir. Especially for one who acted as I did." She considered something else. "And if I may ask – with all due respect – how does a … _doctor_ … know all this? Absolutely no disrespect intended, sir."

"None taken." He sighed. "You're a good soldier, Kit … and a good officer. Your record shows that. The military can't afford to lose good people like you. You just need some help now. And I think you can handle it. Somebody who survived Mabase probably can."

She bowed her head slightly. "Thank you … sir …"

He flipped the papers on the clipboard again and studied the bottom document. "And besides …," he said, "you apparently have a friend in high places."

She perked up. "Who?"

"I'm not at liberty to say directly. There's an agency that reviews all Mabase-related incidents. Put bluntly, it's for information containment. The official story is that Mabase was a military experiment gone wrong."

"I'm aware of that."

"But people with clearance, especially those who were _there_, knowit was an alien encounter. And they're sworn to secrecy." He grinned. "_Weren't_ they, Lieutenant?"

She smiled. "Yes, sir, they _were_."

"The agency works with Medcom on cases involving Mabase. It'll send a psychiatrist to check them out. Even civilian cases. And sometimes … the psychiatrist is a colonel with high security clearance." He offered another grin. "Isn't _that _interesting, Lieutenant?"

She offered another smile. "_Yes,_ sir."

"Given the purpose of the agency, the names of its officials are classified. But the director took over your case when your name was forwarded. That person handled it personally. The director asked that you be treated leniently — and set up all the arrangements I've described."

"_Overnight?_"

"The official I'm referring to has a _lot_ of pull, Lieutenant. A _lot._"

"But I can't know this person's name?" she asked.

"Well … he approved telling you his code name. _If _you understand it, you're under orders – _orders,_ Lieutenant – not to tell it, or his real name, to anyone. Even if you _don't_ understand his code name, you're still ordered not to discuss it. Mabase is still a sensitive issue in many ways. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

His expression became more comforting. "Kit … the director told me _in person_ … to tell you that he … _'Eyebrows'_… hoped you're feeling better soon …"

Slowly — slowly — realization possessed her. Suddenly, her eyes flashed sharply, and her right hand cupped her mouth swiftly. "Oh … my … _God _…," she muffled, then started barely rocking to her words. "Oh my _God_ oh my _God _oh my _God …"_

"Apparently," the doctor said, "the code name means something to you." A sly smile. "He thought it would."

She stopped rocking. Her hand still over her mouth, her eyes still huge, she faced him and nodded.

"Mabase veterans are hard to get rid of, Kit. People like him. And you."

She lowered her hand and smiled. "Thank you, Doctor."

He stood up, stretched and yawned. "Ohhhh … Excuse me. All right, then … Seems like we're done here for now. After I file my report, a therapy program will be set up for you. I'll certify that you're not a danger to yourself or others. And the therapy will be scheduled around your regular duties." He leaned forward and grinned again. "So you're not getting out of work for _this,_ Kit …," he said.

She was still focused elsewhere. "Sir, can I get in touch with … 'Eyebrows'?"

"No. I'm sorry. He's in a highly sensitive position now. Even more so than in Mabase."

Her expression dropped. "Oh."

"But that doesn't mean he won't possibly get in touch with _you_, Kit. He knows where you are. _And _where you're going."

Her expression brightened. "_Oh _…"

"We'll talk again soon. If you need anything, just use the call button, like Doctor Pearce said. In the meantime …" He pointed at her. "… _relax,_ Lieutenant. Everything's going to be fine."

"Yes, sir," she replied, "and … thank you again …"

He nodded and headed for the door but stopped in front of it. He inspected her uniform, fingering the fabric for a moment. "This is in good order, Lieutenant," he observed and faced her again with an encouraging look. "Shows a soldier with good discipline. One who can handle anything that comes her way."

She nodded gratefully. But instantly, her eyes flared again. "OH, NO!!"

He raised an eyebrow. "_Lieutenant _…?"

She recovered immediately. "I'm sorry, sir. I just remembered: I never picked up my cleaning."

"Your _cleaning_?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well … you could probably … ask someone to pick it up for you."

"Um, if I may suggest, sir … My car is parked near the cleaners. Would it be possible for me to pick it up when I pick up my car?"

He thought. "I … suppose … that could be cleared. I have to check in today with the people involved in your case, anyway. I'll ask."

"I'd appreciate that, sir. Thank you."

He thought more. "What _are_ you driving now, Lieutenant?"

She grinned slyly. "A big … red … SUV … _sir_ …"

He nodded. "That … makes … _sense_ …" He put a hand on the doorknob – but halted one more time. "Is your cleaning _that_ important to you, Kit?"

"I don't like ironing," she clarified.

"That makes two of us."

"Well … to be specific, sir …" She seemed to almost start blushing. "… I don't like … steam irons ..."

He squinted at her. "S_team irons_?"

Her dark-amber eyes sparked. "You have no idea."

More thought. More connections until finally, he made one: "The … Medical Mechanica … plant …?"

She shrugged, almost embarrassed. "I _know_ it sounds _stupid_ …"

For his part, he grinned again – broadly this time – and glanced away. A chuckle that he couldn't smother escaped. Then he shook his head and regarded the young blond woman once more.

For her part, she saw in his eyes a sense, a feeling, that someone understood her. That someone knew what she knew.

And among the things she knew now was that somewhere, an old friend still cared for her.

He opened the door and viewed her kindly. "Forget it, Kit," he said. It's Mabase."

"FLCL," its characters and situations are copyright of their respective owners. Story copyright 2008 by George Pollock, Jr.


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